Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Psychotic America ❯ I Hate Myself For Losing You ( Chapter 17 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Manga-Chick 
Quatre meets Treize...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Hentai / Action | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.11.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.7K | Visits: 430 | Status: Completed
Quatre meets Treize...
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Hentai / Action | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.11.2005 | Pages: 3 | Words: 6.7K | Visits: 430 | Status: Completed
Alternate Universe, fusion, out of character charas, no regard to X-Men timeline and shit like that!!!
Pairings: 1x4, 2x5 3(?)
Standard Disclaimers Apply: don’townGundamWingGODDAMNIT!! Oh, and X-Men...ugh.
Warnings: Disturbing content that deals with incest, violence, gore, hot guys in leather pants.
O0o0o0o0o0oO means scene change
A/N: Sorry sorry sorry SORRY for not having updated in FOREVER!!! I just...lost interest in GW fandom after falling into another, and I was trying so hard to write GW...and found that I just couldn’t. The characters weren’t the same as I wrote them. But...after a long hiatus...I finally got to sit down and dabble at this chapter, spurned by my own drawings of the conclusion. YAY! Hopefully I’m on a roll! But...seriously? Don’t count on it too much. (Winces)
Chapter Seventeen: I Hate Myself For Losing You
For most of his life, all Quatre remembered was the pain: physical, emotional, and mental. He’d grown up in a war-torn world, where his father was convinced by his God that his ideals needed to be shoved onto those around him. And money, like power, made his ideals come to life. Quatre’s home was featured daily on CNN and the like, where followers of his father’s army fought daily battles against both armed and unarmed forces that either agreed or disagreed with his beliefs.
Of course, Americans were at the top of his father’s shit list, and he had yet to declare a formal jihad against the proud country.
Quatre had been fascinated by the country’s ideals of ‘freedom’ and ‘amendments’ that were taken for astonishing ease amongst America’s people. He had enjoyed the idea of wandering the streets without having an RPG fired nearby, or that a child could simply be a child, and not a puppeted possession. At age eight, he’d wanted to be an American, but his father spat upon the idea.
His father was a difficult man at this time–his stress and his ideals took up his time and his affection as he sought to spread his word of what should be in his country, and his children and his multiple wives and children were kept at a distance from him.
Quatre had learned that violence, though angry and brutal and most hateful, seemed to solve any problem that arose. He grew numb to the daily war that raged around him, and found fear only at nights.
His father had begun ‘grooming’ him when he’d turned old enough to realize that men’s and women’s bodies were different. His father, while talking to him in a calm, rational manner about the Quran and Allah’s ideals, often held him in his lap and stroked him in caressing ways, until Quatre began to familiarize himself with erections. His own childish curiosity was prodded and encouraged as he was shown what an erect penis looked like and what it did if manipulated the right way. He remembered finding it revolting, but also interesting as his father encouraged him to explore such things.
He remembered feeling that it was wrong to feel his young body being stroked in such ways, and being caressed so tenderly in areas he only knew produced waste. He remembered feeling sick and scared as he was encouraged to use his mouth in exploring things. All this time, his father was kind to him, encouraging him with murmurs of praise, as if he were being taught to fish, or to work a radio-controlled truck. His father never raised his voice or used violence, or even made Quatre feel forced to participate. He learned that these were things that kept his father happy despite his war, and he learned to appreciate this happiness. His confusion over his feelings left him feeling unsure and often distanced as time progressed in this manner.
When he was nine, his father took him for the first time. Quatre had been convinced he was being punished for doing something wrong, for not making him happy. His distraught mind convinced him that sex was punishment for failing his father, for not doing what he’d wanted during the day.
He learned to fear the night, and began to wet the bed, too terrified to leave the room, too pained to even move after his father took him. He bled in his underwear, and had accidents during the day. He found himself too scared to talk, too shamed to look for solace, and too numb to fight. He wasn’t sure if his father was punishing him, or merely showing his love and affection.
His father never raised his voice to him, never spanked him, never reprimanded him. Quatre was confused by his attention, and never said a word to anyone. Even if his father didn’t give the suggestion in that he shouldn’t say anything.
He lived his life in this way, hiding during the nights before his father could visit him, and quietly taking and giving what was being taught to him if he was unlucky enough to be caught. It grew to a point where he began accepting what was being done to him as normal, that this was his father’s way of expressing his love and affection; for he never displayed it with anyone else. Sex was an expression of love–and love was something valuable and treasured because of its rarity.
But at age eleven, his natural birth mother found out their secret. She stumbled upon them in the bathroom, and, as women were taught from birth, learned that it was none of her business. When Quatre told her afterward, that the reason he continued to wet the bed was because he was too scared to get up at nights, his mother denied the abuse. She denied what she saw, and denied what was being done to her son before her eyes.
He tried to convince her that it was an expression of love–that his father loved him. How could it be wrong? She’d slapped him that day, declaring that he not tell anyone what was being done. From that point on, she kept her back turned to him, to ashamed and helpless to stop what her husband was doing. Quatre took it as he was a shameful person, that he was unfit to walk alongside others because of his filth.
At twelve, his father stopped visiting him. He’d been just as confused as when it started, and wondered once more, what he did wrong. His father began ignoring him, behaving as if Quatre didn’t exist. The boy grew confused and rejected by this tactic, and withdrew into himself, certain that he had no one else to turn to. There were days when he refused to leave his room, or even speak. He re-taught himself to stop wetting the bed, and learned to accept that he wasn’t good enough to do anything beyond what he’d been taught by his father.
At fourteen, he began learning that the emotions he was feeling weren’t his. Unable to talk to anyone about what he was feeling, he learned to control the feelings that assaulted him almost daily–the hatred for others; the anger, the fury, the calm satisfaction of killing others; the grim beliefs and the unhappy feelings of failure. He learned how happiness felt when followers attuned themselves to the Quran, or when opponents were slaughtered. He learned the women’s shame in helplessness and non-existence, existing only for procreation. He learned of his father’s satisfaction in sacrificing others for his own ideals.
It was also at this time that he’d witnessed his mother and a small act of love that changed everything. It had been one of those usual days, where he could hear rapid gunfire and explosions in the distance, and he’d wandered the cool walls of the mansion with no real destination in mind.
When he’d heard voices ahead, using his newfound gift to find that it was his mother and an unidentified man, he’d grown curious enough to sneak up upon the scene. He’d watched in stunned silence as his mother kissed the man on the cheek before he’d turned and left. Eyes wide at the fact that his mother touched another man, and was without her concealing veils to boot, he immediately turned and went in search of his father.
Women were supposed to be creatures underfoot, and their faces were never to be revealed to those that weren’t married to them. To know that his mother participated in such activities with another man was enough to drive him to his father, to let him know that she was unfaithful. Quatre hadn’t felt any closeness with his mother since that day she’d slapped him, and had felt a slip of happiness in witnessing her ‘adultery’. Finally, she would be punished for that instant, and he felt slight relief in that.
He felt old anger bubble up with him, quietly steaming as he wondered why she hadn’t interfered, why she felt she needed to blame him for what his father had done. This anger merged into hurt and the need for retribution. He wasn’t aware that he could transfer it to anybody else until he realized how much he influenced his father.
His father, after Quatre told him what he saw, his own emotions bubbling with a matter-of-fact need for revenge and pain, was furious. He hadn’t seen the confrontation between the two, but Quatre witnessed the execution the next day, in the courtyard where prosecutions commonly took place.
Quatre had watched with a sense of detachment and horror as he watched his mother stoned, killed by his father and his loyal soldiers. That day, he realized that he did not feel good with himself, that he felt not justified by what had happened–he felt just as low as his father. He felt he had taken his father’s place, and became just as filthy as he.
That night, he’d gathered what he felt he could carry, and used his influences to leave the mansion. He had no idea of where he was going, or how he was going to go about it–but he knew he couldn’t stay there anymore. The guilt of being the influence in killing his mother, and for the past abuse, drove him to unthinking needs to leave. He couldn’t stay.
He’d caught a ride with a man that worked a Red Cross truck, and trekked across the desert. He’d learned to trust no one after his belongings were stolen from him, and he learned to pick-pocket by watching the children that worked various market places. At fifteen, halfway across Africa, he trusted the wrong person and fell victim to a merciless gang bang that left him feeling stripped of confidence in fellow humans. But he was aware of the fact that no matter where he was, or what he was doing, his body seemed to capture interest of those around him. He healed enough to figure out what tricks he had to pull in order to eat, and in order to keep moving.
At nineteen, he found a one way ticket to America–the Land of Opportunity and expression, the country of his dreams. He thought he could find change there; he thought that once he landed upon that sullied soil, he’d be able to break out of his victim role and learn to dominate himself; learn to heal and move on. But America disappointed him–he didn’t know enough English to know how to get around, nor did he know what he had to do to get by. He found himself on the streets, and found himself reclaiming his role as a victim as he realized that nothing would change, no matter the continent.
He knew no other role. And because of it, he thought no other way. He’d been groomed to live this way since he was very young–so when the others took him in, teaching him how to use his powers in a better way, he felt a small sense of hope. It wasn’t big enough to change his world around–but enough to let him know that he could be something else.
He woke slowly, taking in his surroundings with little movement, his jaw throbbing with pain. As his senses returned to him from the land of dreams, he grew aware that his hands were tied together.
That he was laying on his back. That he was alone.
Where was Duo?
He used his empathy to search out the mutant–but was startled when he realized that he couldn’t use them. He blinked–his features were blank, his face revealing nothing as he adjusted to this setting. It was a large room–bare, save for a bed, night stand, chair and a tv set atop of a corner stand. The window revealed the skyline of Manhattan–he could hear and feel the city, and knew that it was still night. He blinked away, and registered his cold feet. He hadn’t had the chance to get shoes when those men took them–he wiggled his toes.
They still worked. Cold, but they worked. His hands were tied behind him, and his arms ached. He took a slow breath, and used his empathy to search out others. And found nothing. Either his powers weren’t working at all, or there was no one within this distance. Which brought a frown to his face, because he should have at least sensed someone. A bystander, an civilian–anyone. But nothing.
Figuring that he was defenseless, he took a deep breath and tried to sort the panic out from his mind.
He shouldn’t worry. There was no one here to harm him. He should think.
Working with the other mutants had given him some confidence–their training exercises had taught him that he could perform feats with or without his powers. He worked at the plastic that kept both wrists together, and patiently stared up at the ceiling. He had no idea where he was...where Duo was...what these men planned on doing with them. But he didn’t want to stick around to find out.
The plastic ties cut into his skin, gripping his wrists, and refused to budge as he rubbed one wrist against the other.
He turned his head slightly, seeing that the door was shut–squinting, he could see that it was locked from his end. Which probably meant that he wasn’t locked in at all. He rose unsteadily from the floor, and walked over to the door. Twisting, he turned the knob, hearing the soft click it made as he turned it.
He opened the door slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness out there, then cautiously stepped out into the hall. He heard the soft bubbling of a fish aquarium, and heard the pitter patter of rain. It was raining? No...there, in the corner of the main room was a digital center, and the CD player was running. Had to be one of those nature theme things...he stepped close to the wall, leaning against it as he continually rubbed his wrists together. His skin was burning as he scraped and rubbed, but he was used to pain.
Paying no mind to it, he stepped forward, his ears straining for anything that would give him indication of another person.
He froze, then, his nostrils twitching as something caught his attention. A strong, masculine scent, tinged with something spicy. He turned his head, and felt his entire frame stiffen as he stared up at a smirking blond man that was standing just inches from him. He hadn’t felt him; hadn’t heard him; hadn’t even seen him. How had he...?
“Quiet, little mouse,” the man said, finger against his pursed lips. Quatre recognized him as Zechs, from that night he’d carried out the attack on the house. There was no mistaking his light blue eyes and long hair. He froze, in startled fear as he found himself staring into those eyes. “There are people asleep, here. One more step, and you would have wakened them...”
The icy smoothness of his voice made Quatre’s gut curdle–the man’s eyes were shadowed with menacing intent; he didn’t need to have his empathy to know that this one liked to harm others. But he kept his own face blank–show a man fear, and they used it for their own pleasures.
He jerked slightly at the feel of fingertips underneath his chin, forcing his face up. Zechs was studying his features with a caressing air...taking in everything with all the wonder and study that one reserved for art. He felt molested. It was a familiar feeling, and his instincts of self-preservation and survival flared to life. If this man wanted him, he would go with it. If he wanted to do things to him that made him scream–then that’s how it was to be.
He swallowed, the movement catching the man’s inquisitive blue eyes. Those fingertips dropped from his chin and traced down his throat, rubbing briefly at his Adam’s Apple.
“Pretty, pretty little creature...you look different when you aren’t behaving ferally... So delicate and fragile...you’ll break if too much force is applied.”
‘Break’? No...too many things had been done to him in the past. He hadn’t broken yet–but Quatre knew that there was a day in which he’d snap. He just hadn’t thought of the resulting consequences, yet. It all didn’t matter, anyway....he wasn’t human. He was a thing. Just a play thing for others’ amusement–
No. He was human. He was able to feel.
“Come with me, little mouse...let’s put you back into your room. Good, obedient little mouse...so delicate and fragile...”
Quatre winced at the feel Zech’s lips against the back of his neck, the feel of his nostrils pressed against his skin. He heard the slow, indrawn breath that man took as he inhaled his scent. He felt his gut curdle with apprehension, his fingers curling into fists. Strong, firm hands settled on both his arms, holding him firmly as those lips ghosted along the back of his neck, into his hairline. He felt oddly calm as he allowed this–there wasn’t anything he could do, anyway. Not in this state. This man could overpower him easily without his powers. Where had his powers gone, anyway?
He heard him tsk again once they reached the room–and this time, he felt his wrists being investigated, wincing as the sting of a fingertip traced over the rawness beneath the plastic cuffs.
“This can’t be left untreated,” Zechs murmured. Quatre heard the wet sound of lips curling around a digit–the slick ‘pop’ his mouth made as he pulled his finger from that moist cavern. It made him ill to know that Zechs was tasting him in that manner.“Will you be a good little boy, and stand still while I treat this? Something as beautiful as you should not be walking around with this travesty.”
Quatre didn’t say anything; merely took the man’s words for what they were, and heard him leave. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that he’d left the door wide open. He turned to start through it once again when the blond man walked in with a first aid kit.
The door was shut behind him as he eyed Quatre with a smoldering stare, the lights of the city casting odd shadows over his handsome face. Without any expression, Quatre stared right back. Faintly, he thought of the others; he wondered where they were. He wondered where Duo was. He wished he was able to feel him.
The man stepped closer to him, keeping his eyes on his, and to avoid being pressed against him, Quatre stepped back to give himself space. But the man followed until Quatre realized that he was being led over to the bed. Panic caused a hitched gasp to escape, and his limbs went stiff–but only for a moment. He was being turned around, his mind sweeping with half blind terror as he was forced over the mattress, his knees hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thump.
He breathed in deeply of fabric softener as his face was pressed against the bed, and he could feel himself start to tense, every muscle of his going rigid as he waited for another action against him.
Surprise at feeling the plastic cuffs around his wrists being cut off made him hold his breath.
But as seconds passed by, and there wasn’t any bad action performed against him, Quatre felt himself relax slightly, attuning all his senses to the present. He could feel the man’s hands working on the abrasions on his arms, methodically cleaning them with an antiseptic pad, blowing on it gently to dispel the stinging.
He could hear Manhattan’s familiar noises, a vague sort of background sound that easily forced him to relax even further as the man treated him.
“My name is Zechs,” the blond finally said, startling Quatre out of the silence. “I’ll be your host, for tonight. Until Treize returns...you and your friend are guests, here, for now. You’ll be treated with courtesy and respect...so long as we’re treated the same way. Do you understand?”
Quatre absorbed what was being said to him, taking his words into consideration. He swallowed lightly, staring almost blankly at the bed he was pressed against, and then nodded slowly. He felt Zechs’ hands travel softly up his wrists, his long, strong fingers encircling the thinness of his limb. He felt breath against the back of his neck once more, and closed his eyes, trying to weather out the sense of unease that he felt upon the man’s closeness and suggestive nature.
But he was aware of another thing; his wrists weren’t being tied back together.
“You’re harmless,” Zechs said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You’re utterly harmless...Are you scared, little mouse? Is that why you haven’t bothered trying? Or do you simply know you cannot outmatch me, and have admitted defeat? That...pretty one...is rather beautiful of you. To know the distinction of what a man can do to another and is willing to play the submissive is quite courageous. You are a stronger man than most. Others...others would panic and fight the instant they sense danger, never truly knowing what else could have been done if they had merely waited.”
Quatre stiffened at the feel of a fingertip traveling up the inseam of his jean clad thigh. His muscles trembled as that single digit switched to four fingers, tracing up into his crotch. He shut his eyes, taking the grope with nothing more than a hitched breath. He felt Zechs’ lips at the back of his neck once more, and could feel the curl of a smile against his skin.
He hated this man. And he hated so much that as he opened his eyes, feeling another hand slide up his hip, he could think of how he was going to destroy him. Many people before him had had their hands on him; their filthy, disgusting, selfish hands that never thought of how he felt.
No one asked him if it were okay; and he learned to give himself out if it meant his survival.
But no one asked. His comfort never came to the front; his needs were ignored; no one bothered to act concerned for him.
He continued to remain silent, his eyes traveling along the basic furnishings of the room. They paused on the night stand, and he stared at the slim, dark handle that allowed one to open the single drawer. He could see that it could disconnect easily. All he had to do was twist it, turn it sideways. And it’d be done.
Faintly, his lips curled into a smirk.
Zechs pulled away from him then, rising as he put away the discarded materials of which he’d used to clean his wounds. Quatre didn’t move, listening to the other man put the first aid kit aside, his footsteps whispering along the carpet. He continued to stare at the drawer handle, and forced himself to relax once more.
When he felt gentle, strong hands curling under his arms, forcing him to rise, he resolved himself to do something he hadn’t done, before; he was going to fight back.
When he recognized that Zechs was maneuvering him back first against the bed, he forced himself out of his arms, slamming against the night stand in a movement that looked as if he’d simply tripped. His hands, talented in the old art of thieving, had the handle out from its supports before he even settled against the sturdy piece of furniture.
Zechs was immediately there to pick him up again, never seeing the smirk the shadows of the room hid as Quatre allowed himself to be maneuvered onto the bed.
As he slid across the cool sheets, the man following him with a predatory expression, Quatre focused on the ceiling, hands held stiffly at his sides. He counted the tiles as Zechs lowered his face to his neck, his pretty lips touching and tasting his throat. It was disgusting, really, to have contact with a creature like this. Vile, predatory and giving not a fig to what Quatre wanted. He didn’t want to be touched like this, to be treated this way. He didn’t want it.
But he laid there, patiently, waiting for the right moment. Zechs was murmuring his appreciation as his hands ghosted over his frame, lightly caressing his ribs, his chest; feeling out his nipples. Quatre shifted his eyes to look over Zechs’, noting the man’s predatory expression as they swept over his exposed flesh.
Zechs didn’t know what was coming as he lowered his head once more.
It felt odd; the metal handle drove into the optic orb, and there was a loud POP that made Quatre wince. There was a moment of silence as Zechs froze in his previous movement, and Quatre stared, wide-eyed, as he removed his hand from his weapon. The handle just seemed to hover there; wedged in tightly within the orb that had been Zechs’ eye. Blood didn’t flow immediately–no, it wept slowly, dribbling down that pale face and curving down his chin; dripping onto Quatre’s chest with solid warmth. For a moment, it was unreal.
Zechs screamed, a wicked, ugly sound that shattered the silence. He rose away from him, his hands flying to his face. Immediately, Quatre was jumping up from the bed, running out as the blond flailed in hysterical panic. Furniture smashed to the floor; expletives filled the air; Zechs screamed himself hoarse as Quatre ran throughout the penthouse searching for Duo.
Door after door was found locked. Quatre’s throat had locked up, preventing him from calling Duo’s name. He clawed at each handle, pounded at every door, hearing Zechs scream. Fear made him silent as he tore through one hall into the next; took a stairway down to start on those doors.
He heard Zechs screaming for him, vowing death and torture. Loud thumps told Quatre that he was staggering out from that room, and he was looking for him.
Quatre flew through the first doorway that opened upon his frantic grasp. He found himself stumbling into a library, one with books that filled every available inch of the room. He plowed through a couple of stacks, whirled, and headed back out. Zechs was clawing his way through the hall, his one good eye widening with recognized fury once he caught sight of Quatre.
For a moment, the blond froze in his haste. Staring at that one good eye, the other ruined beyond repair and recognition, he was caught in the throes of paralyzation.
Zechs lunged at him, his hands bloodied. At least he’d removed the handle from his ruined eye. That got Quatre to move–he turned and sprinted down the hall, hearing Zechs slam into the floor. The man’s scream followed him as he took another staircase up onto the previous floor.
He found his voice, then, screaming Duo’s name as he found himself back in the living room.
As he ran down the same hall he’d left earlier, he heard a door slam in a direction opposite of him. He whirled, trying to locate the pinpoint of that sound. Zechs was cursing up a storm, a myriad mixture of threats, of promises, of foul language.
He turned to run away from the oncoming storm, only to hear an unfamiliar man’s voice ring out. He stopped short, then turned to a door–it was unlocked, and he flung it open, running inside; only to see that it was a bathroom. He gave a distressed sound as he heard someone running to the door; looking over his shoulder, he watched Zechs give a snarl before slamming the door shut. Quatre lunged at it, feeling the handle being gripped firmly as the older man kept him from opening it.
He heard the low mixture of voices outside the door, followed with outraged cries and startled inquiries. Pulling his hand away from the handle, he whipped around, searching for another weapon. Being able to fight back, earning an injury of his attacker in the process, gave him the confidence he needed to continue. The blind panic from earlier was slowly ebbing away–letting his mind clear so that he could plan out a better escape plan. He found the toilet plunger, and brandished that, backing away from the door until he hit the back wall. Focusing on his breathing, he willed the door to open; he planned his defense, and planned his way out of the penthouse. He couldn’t find Duo; he’d just have to come back to get him later, with the others. He heard the mixture of voices leave the door. As silence fell over him, he gripped the plunger tightly, anxiously awaiting some form of movement from those that were waiting outside.
Minutes seemed to pass with the length of hours. He grew stiff from standing so tensely, gripping the plunger tightly within both hands. When no telling movement or sound alerted him to danger outside, he cautiously began to move forward. He reached out to grip the doorknob, and found it unlocked. Slowly, he turned the handle and opened the door, peering out carefully. The hall was empty, but he heard Zechs cursing up a solid storm just down the other way. Seeing that he was in the clear, Quatre moved out from the bathroom, and began moving toward the living room.
“There you are!” someone shouted, and he whirled in time to see a tall, dark haired man lunge at him. He swung the plunger, catching the man upside the face; he recognized him as the magician, Trant. Trant stumbled upon impact, and gave a loud noise of dissatisfaction as he hit the floor. Quatre turned and ran, sprinting for the front door, hearing others giving chase.
Growing panicked as he slammed to a stop against the solid wood, he worked the locks and had the thing open when hands ensnared within his hair and yanked him back. He began swinging his arms around, kicking at anything that moved as complaints colored the air.
He was then pinned down, with one man sitting on his feet, and two others holding him by his wrists. The position was very familiar; and his breathing turned into panicked wheezes, fear overtaking his earlier fighting instincts. Upon seeing the puzzled expressions of those that were holding him down, his eyes flitting from each one to another with stark terror.
“Let him go.”
“Wha–? Treize–!”
“Just let him go. Please.”
Reluctantly, Quatre’s wrists and feet were released, the men rising to their feet and moving back. Quickly, Quatre was on his own feet, pulling away from them. His back hit the door, eyes still flitting wildly from one person to another, still unable to control his panicked breathing. One man in particular stood out–his handsome features were arranged into that of kindness as he gestured at the others to leave.
This man’s eyes were also blue–but they didn’t hold the same coldness and emptiness that Zechs’ possessed. No, these eyes were full of intelligence and of cunning. As they bore into Quatre’s, the blond had a fleeting instinct in that something wasn’t right; that what he was looking into wasn’t what he saw.
He felt nauseated for a few moments, and the room tilted gently. But the moment he blinked, these symptoms went away. Unfortunately, he himself couldn’t look away from those hooded orbs.
Treize walked up to him, and paused a few steps away. His expression shifted to that of inquiry as he signaled for the others to leave.
“We’ve had a rough time, I see,” Treize murmured. No matter what, Quatre couldn’t look away from his eyes, and Trieze seemed to use that as he took another step closer to him. “I apologize, first off, for being so indifferent to your needs. I would have thought that you’d behave in a more appropriate manner in an unfamiliar setting–that is, not stabbing my friends in their eyes.”
Treize took in the frightened male’s features, his eyes caressing over every inch as he began a slow walk away from him. They touched briefly on Quatre’s bare feet, noting the boniness of his toes, the way they curled into the carpet.
“I’m here to help you,” he then said, raising his voice. “Both you and...your friend Duo. You see, being with those other boys had been hell, wasn’t it? I was told of how they mistreated you both. Especially you, Quatre. Three boys...growing up without the love and affection of the opposite sex–discounting Sally and Catherine, as they prefer each other–they must have grown selfish with just a taste. They used you and used you, until you yourself could not distinguish what was really affection, and what was really the careless use of a new toy. I fully understand, Quatre...that’s why I wanted to rescue you. That’s why I had asked my friends, who all had your best interests and comforts in heart, to take you out of that home.”
Quatre had a fleeting moment in that he couldn’t believe what Treize was saying. But it vanished, then, as he thought about Heero. How the mutant would jerk him around; use him sexually, the way he’d pulled away when Quatre revealed his horrible secret. How Trowa used him as a hostage. How Duo and Wufei flaunted their love for each other. How Sally and Catherine talked to him condescendingly.
“No one cares for you, Quatre...and it shows. Look at you. If they had cared so much, why are you still here?” Treize asked softly, gesturing around his penthouse. “If they were your friends, don’t you think they should be here right now? That they wouldn’t have allowed Alex to take the pair of you out of that home? In fact, Duo left earlier. He left without you. He wanted only to save himself, Quatre. What kind of friend is that? To think only of himself? His means of teleportation could have whisked the pair of you away from here...to the comforts of your home...but he instead took only himself. That isn’t a friend, Quatre.”
Duo had left? Is that why he couldn’t find him? There had been a lot of noise made within this place, and if Duo were truly here...wouldn’t he have answered? Quatre felt himself slumping tiredly against the wall. In a way, Treize was right. Enough time had passed for Heero and the others to find them. After all, they had said they’d kept tabs on Treize; to know the small details of where he lived, of whom he dealt with...why weren’t they here?
Suddenly he recalled Zechs saying something about people sleeping within the penthouse. Faint storms of conflicting emotions made him close his eyes, jerking away from Treize’s presence.
“You can’t use your powers here, Quatre,” Treize went on to croon. Quatre found himself staring into those eyes once more, unable to look away. The realization in being unable to use his powers made his entire body heavy. “They will not work. No matter how hard you try, they will not work. Do not even try to use them.”
Without them...he was helpless. Quatre felt himself slump, then slowly sink to the floor. He couldn’t see Treize’s eyes with his own closed, but he could still see them on the back of his eyelids.
“There, there...come now...let’s return you to your room...get some rest. And when you wake up, all of this will have been a very bad dream. Your ‘friends’ don’t care enough for you to come for you, Quatre. I will keep you safe. No one will use you, here. Come....let’s go back to your room...”
And, with a flash of startled wonder, Quatre felt himself taking the hand that was being offered to him. Treize helped him up, and the two walked back to the room that Quatre had woken in. As he was being led in, Trieze let his hand linger over the blond’s shoulder.
“Sleep well, Quatre,” he said softly. “Your enemies will not find you here. They will not disturb you here. I will keep you safe.”
Quatre nodded, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He drifted away from Treize, and walked over to the bed. Zechs’ blood was still there on the bedsheets. But he paid it no mind as he sank onto the surface, curling lightly into a fetal position. He felt tired all of a sudden, and he closed his eyes to sleep as Treize watched over him...a smirk on his handsome face.
Pairings: 1x4, 2x5 3(?)
Standard Disclaimers Apply: don’townGundamWingGODDAMNIT!! Oh, and X-Men...ugh.
Warnings: Disturbing content that deals with incest, violence, gore, hot guys in leather pants.
O0o0o0o0o0oO means scene change
A/N: Sorry sorry sorry SORRY for not having updated in FOREVER!!! I just...lost interest in GW fandom after falling into another, and I was trying so hard to write GW...and found that I just couldn’t. The characters weren’t the same as I wrote them. But...after a long hiatus...I finally got to sit down and dabble at this chapter, spurned by my own drawings of the conclusion. YAY! Hopefully I’m on a roll! But...seriously? Don’t count on it too much. (Winces)
Chapter Seventeen: I Hate Myself For Losing You
For most of his life, all Quatre remembered was the pain: physical, emotional, and mental. He’d grown up in a war-torn world, where his father was convinced by his God that his ideals needed to be shoved onto those around him. And money, like power, made his ideals come to life. Quatre’s home was featured daily on CNN and the like, where followers of his father’s army fought daily battles against both armed and unarmed forces that either agreed or disagreed with his beliefs.
Of course, Americans were at the top of his father’s shit list, and he had yet to declare a formal jihad against the proud country.
Quatre had been fascinated by the country’s ideals of ‘freedom’ and ‘amendments’ that were taken for astonishing ease amongst America’s people. He had enjoyed the idea of wandering the streets without having an RPG fired nearby, or that a child could simply be a child, and not a puppeted possession. At age eight, he’d wanted to be an American, but his father spat upon the idea.
His father was a difficult man at this time–his stress and his ideals took up his time and his affection as he sought to spread his word of what should be in his country, and his children and his multiple wives and children were kept at a distance from him.
Quatre had learned that violence, though angry and brutal and most hateful, seemed to solve any problem that arose. He grew numb to the daily war that raged around him, and found fear only at nights.
His father had begun ‘grooming’ him when he’d turned old enough to realize that men’s and women’s bodies were different. His father, while talking to him in a calm, rational manner about the Quran and Allah’s ideals, often held him in his lap and stroked him in caressing ways, until Quatre began to familiarize himself with erections. His own childish curiosity was prodded and encouraged as he was shown what an erect penis looked like and what it did if manipulated the right way. He remembered finding it revolting, but also interesting as his father encouraged him to explore such things.
He remembered feeling that it was wrong to feel his young body being stroked in such ways, and being caressed so tenderly in areas he only knew produced waste. He remembered feeling sick and scared as he was encouraged to use his mouth in exploring things. All this time, his father was kind to him, encouraging him with murmurs of praise, as if he were being taught to fish, or to work a radio-controlled truck. His father never raised his voice or used violence, or even made Quatre feel forced to participate. He learned that these were things that kept his father happy despite his war, and he learned to appreciate this happiness. His confusion over his feelings left him feeling unsure and often distanced as time progressed in this manner.
When he was nine, his father took him for the first time. Quatre had been convinced he was being punished for doing something wrong, for not making him happy. His distraught mind convinced him that sex was punishment for failing his father, for not doing what he’d wanted during the day.
He learned to fear the night, and began to wet the bed, too terrified to leave the room, too pained to even move after his father took him. He bled in his underwear, and had accidents during the day. He found himself too scared to talk, too shamed to look for solace, and too numb to fight. He wasn’t sure if his father was punishing him, or merely showing his love and affection.
His father never raised his voice to him, never spanked him, never reprimanded him. Quatre was confused by his attention, and never said a word to anyone. Even if his father didn’t give the suggestion in that he shouldn’t say anything.
He lived his life in this way, hiding during the nights before his father could visit him, and quietly taking and giving what was being taught to him if he was unlucky enough to be caught. It grew to a point where he began accepting what was being done to him as normal, that this was his father’s way of expressing his love and affection; for he never displayed it with anyone else. Sex was an expression of love–and love was something valuable and treasured because of its rarity.
But at age eleven, his natural birth mother found out their secret. She stumbled upon them in the bathroom, and, as women were taught from birth, learned that it was none of her business. When Quatre told her afterward, that the reason he continued to wet the bed was because he was too scared to get up at nights, his mother denied the abuse. She denied what she saw, and denied what was being done to her son before her eyes.
He tried to convince her that it was an expression of love–that his father loved him. How could it be wrong? She’d slapped him that day, declaring that he not tell anyone what was being done. From that point on, she kept her back turned to him, to ashamed and helpless to stop what her husband was doing. Quatre took it as he was a shameful person, that he was unfit to walk alongside others because of his filth.
At twelve, his father stopped visiting him. He’d been just as confused as when it started, and wondered once more, what he did wrong. His father began ignoring him, behaving as if Quatre didn’t exist. The boy grew confused and rejected by this tactic, and withdrew into himself, certain that he had no one else to turn to. There were days when he refused to leave his room, or even speak. He re-taught himself to stop wetting the bed, and learned to accept that he wasn’t good enough to do anything beyond what he’d been taught by his father.
At fourteen, he began learning that the emotions he was feeling weren’t his. Unable to talk to anyone about what he was feeling, he learned to control the feelings that assaulted him almost daily–the hatred for others; the anger, the fury, the calm satisfaction of killing others; the grim beliefs and the unhappy feelings of failure. He learned how happiness felt when followers attuned themselves to the Quran, or when opponents were slaughtered. He learned the women’s shame in helplessness and non-existence, existing only for procreation. He learned of his father’s satisfaction in sacrificing others for his own ideals.
It was also at this time that he’d witnessed his mother and a small act of love that changed everything. It had been one of those usual days, where he could hear rapid gunfire and explosions in the distance, and he’d wandered the cool walls of the mansion with no real destination in mind.
When he’d heard voices ahead, using his newfound gift to find that it was his mother and an unidentified man, he’d grown curious enough to sneak up upon the scene. He’d watched in stunned silence as his mother kissed the man on the cheek before he’d turned and left. Eyes wide at the fact that his mother touched another man, and was without her concealing veils to boot, he immediately turned and went in search of his father.
Women were supposed to be creatures underfoot, and their faces were never to be revealed to those that weren’t married to them. To know that his mother participated in such activities with another man was enough to drive him to his father, to let him know that she was unfaithful. Quatre hadn’t felt any closeness with his mother since that day she’d slapped him, and had felt a slip of happiness in witnessing her ‘adultery’. Finally, she would be punished for that instant, and he felt slight relief in that.
He felt old anger bubble up with him, quietly steaming as he wondered why she hadn’t interfered, why she felt she needed to blame him for what his father had done. This anger merged into hurt and the need for retribution. He wasn’t aware that he could transfer it to anybody else until he realized how much he influenced his father.
His father, after Quatre told him what he saw, his own emotions bubbling with a matter-of-fact need for revenge and pain, was furious. He hadn’t seen the confrontation between the two, but Quatre witnessed the execution the next day, in the courtyard where prosecutions commonly took place.
Quatre had watched with a sense of detachment and horror as he watched his mother stoned, killed by his father and his loyal soldiers. That day, he realized that he did not feel good with himself, that he felt not justified by what had happened–he felt just as low as his father. He felt he had taken his father’s place, and became just as filthy as he.
That night, he’d gathered what he felt he could carry, and used his influences to leave the mansion. He had no idea of where he was going, or how he was going to go about it–but he knew he couldn’t stay there anymore. The guilt of being the influence in killing his mother, and for the past abuse, drove him to unthinking needs to leave. He couldn’t stay.
He’d caught a ride with a man that worked a Red Cross truck, and trekked across the desert. He’d learned to trust no one after his belongings were stolen from him, and he learned to pick-pocket by watching the children that worked various market places. At fifteen, halfway across Africa, he trusted the wrong person and fell victim to a merciless gang bang that left him feeling stripped of confidence in fellow humans. But he was aware of the fact that no matter where he was, or what he was doing, his body seemed to capture interest of those around him. He healed enough to figure out what tricks he had to pull in order to eat, and in order to keep moving.
At nineteen, he found a one way ticket to America–the Land of Opportunity and expression, the country of his dreams. He thought he could find change there; he thought that once he landed upon that sullied soil, he’d be able to break out of his victim role and learn to dominate himself; learn to heal and move on. But America disappointed him–he didn’t know enough English to know how to get around, nor did he know what he had to do to get by. He found himself on the streets, and found himself reclaiming his role as a victim as he realized that nothing would change, no matter the continent.
He knew no other role. And because of it, he thought no other way. He’d been groomed to live this way since he was very young–so when the others took him in, teaching him how to use his powers in a better way, he felt a small sense of hope. It wasn’t big enough to change his world around–but enough to let him know that he could be something else.
He woke slowly, taking in his surroundings with little movement, his jaw throbbing with pain. As his senses returned to him from the land of dreams, he grew aware that his hands were tied together.
That he was laying on his back. That he was alone.
Where was Duo?
He used his empathy to search out the mutant–but was startled when he realized that he couldn’t use them. He blinked–his features were blank, his face revealing nothing as he adjusted to this setting. It was a large room–bare, save for a bed, night stand, chair and a tv set atop of a corner stand. The window revealed the skyline of Manhattan–he could hear and feel the city, and knew that it was still night. He blinked away, and registered his cold feet. He hadn’t had the chance to get shoes when those men took them–he wiggled his toes.
They still worked. Cold, but they worked. His hands were tied behind him, and his arms ached. He took a slow breath, and used his empathy to search out others. And found nothing. Either his powers weren’t working at all, or there was no one within this distance. Which brought a frown to his face, because he should have at least sensed someone. A bystander, an civilian–anyone. But nothing.
Figuring that he was defenseless, he took a deep breath and tried to sort the panic out from his mind.
He shouldn’t worry. There was no one here to harm him. He should think.
Working with the other mutants had given him some confidence–their training exercises had taught him that he could perform feats with or without his powers. He worked at the plastic that kept both wrists together, and patiently stared up at the ceiling. He had no idea where he was...where Duo was...what these men planned on doing with them. But he didn’t want to stick around to find out.
The plastic ties cut into his skin, gripping his wrists, and refused to budge as he rubbed one wrist against the other.
He turned his head slightly, seeing that the door was shut–squinting, he could see that it was locked from his end. Which probably meant that he wasn’t locked in at all. He rose unsteadily from the floor, and walked over to the door. Twisting, he turned the knob, hearing the soft click it made as he turned it.
He opened the door slowly, his eyes adjusting to the darkness out there, then cautiously stepped out into the hall. He heard the soft bubbling of a fish aquarium, and heard the pitter patter of rain. It was raining? No...there, in the corner of the main room was a digital center, and the CD player was running. Had to be one of those nature theme things...he stepped close to the wall, leaning against it as he continually rubbed his wrists together. His skin was burning as he scraped and rubbed, but he was used to pain.
Paying no mind to it, he stepped forward, his ears straining for anything that would give him indication of another person.
He froze, then, his nostrils twitching as something caught his attention. A strong, masculine scent, tinged with something spicy. He turned his head, and felt his entire frame stiffen as he stared up at a smirking blond man that was standing just inches from him. He hadn’t felt him; hadn’t heard him; hadn’t even seen him. How had he...?
“Quiet, little mouse,” the man said, finger against his pursed lips. Quatre recognized him as Zechs, from that night he’d carried out the attack on the house. There was no mistaking his light blue eyes and long hair. He froze, in startled fear as he found himself staring into those eyes. “There are people asleep, here. One more step, and you would have wakened them...”
The icy smoothness of his voice made Quatre’s gut curdle–the man’s eyes were shadowed with menacing intent; he didn’t need to have his empathy to know that this one liked to harm others. But he kept his own face blank–show a man fear, and they used it for their own pleasures.
He jerked slightly at the feel of fingertips underneath his chin, forcing his face up. Zechs was studying his features with a caressing air...taking in everything with all the wonder and study that one reserved for art. He felt molested. It was a familiar feeling, and his instincts of self-preservation and survival flared to life. If this man wanted him, he would go with it. If he wanted to do things to him that made him scream–then that’s how it was to be.
He swallowed, the movement catching the man’s inquisitive blue eyes. Those fingertips dropped from his chin and traced down his throat, rubbing briefly at his Adam’s Apple.
“Pretty, pretty little creature...you look different when you aren’t behaving ferally... So delicate and fragile...you’ll break if too much force is applied.”
‘Break’? No...too many things had been done to him in the past. He hadn’t broken yet–but Quatre knew that there was a day in which he’d snap. He just hadn’t thought of the resulting consequences, yet. It all didn’t matter, anyway....he wasn’t human. He was a thing. Just a play thing for others’ amusement–
No. He was human. He was able to feel.
“Come with me, little mouse...let’s put you back into your room. Good, obedient little mouse...so delicate and fragile...”
Quatre winced at the feel Zech’s lips against the back of his neck, the feel of his nostrils pressed against his skin. He heard the slow, indrawn breath that man took as he inhaled his scent. He felt his gut curdle with apprehension, his fingers curling into fists. Strong, firm hands settled on both his arms, holding him firmly as those lips ghosted along the back of his neck, into his hairline. He felt oddly calm as he allowed this–there wasn’t anything he could do, anyway. Not in this state. This man could overpower him easily without his powers. Where had his powers gone, anyway?
He heard him tsk again once they reached the room–and this time, he felt his wrists being investigated, wincing as the sting of a fingertip traced over the rawness beneath the plastic cuffs.
“This can’t be left untreated,” Zechs murmured. Quatre heard the wet sound of lips curling around a digit–the slick ‘pop’ his mouth made as he pulled his finger from that moist cavern. It made him ill to know that Zechs was tasting him in that manner.“Will you be a good little boy, and stand still while I treat this? Something as beautiful as you should not be walking around with this travesty.”
Quatre didn’t say anything; merely took the man’s words for what they were, and heard him leave. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing that he’d left the door wide open. He turned to start through it once again when the blond man walked in with a first aid kit.
The door was shut behind him as he eyed Quatre with a smoldering stare, the lights of the city casting odd shadows over his handsome face. Without any expression, Quatre stared right back. Faintly, he thought of the others; he wondered where they were. He wondered where Duo was. He wished he was able to feel him.
The man stepped closer to him, keeping his eyes on his, and to avoid being pressed against him, Quatre stepped back to give himself space. But the man followed until Quatre realized that he was being led over to the bed. Panic caused a hitched gasp to escape, and his limbs went stiff–but only for a moment. He was being turned around, his mind sweeping with half blind terror as he was forced over the mattress, his knees hitting the carpeted floor with a muffled thump.
He breathed in deeply of fabric softener as his face was pressed against the bed, and he could feel himself start to tense, every muscle of his going rigid as he waited for another action against him.
Surprise at feeling the plastic cuffs around his wrists being cut off made him hold his breath.
But as seconds passed by, and there wasn’t any bad action performed against him, Quatre felt himself relax slightly, attuning all his senses to the present. He could feel the man’s hands working on the abrasions on his arms, methodically cleaning them with an antiseptic pad, blowing on it gently to dispel the stinging.
He could hear Manhattan’s familiar noises, a vague sort of background sound that easily forced him to relax even further as the man treated him.
“My name is Zechs,” the blond finally said, startling Quatre out of the silence. “I’ll be your host, for tonight. Until Treize returns...you and your friend are guests, here, for now. You’ll be treated with courtesy and respect...so long as we’re treated the same way. Do you understand?”
Quatre absorbed what was being said to him, taking his words into consideration. He swallowed lightly, staring almost blankly at the bed he was pressed against, and then nodded slowly. He felt Zechs’ hands travel softly up his wrists, his long, strong fingers encircling the thinness of his limb. He felt breath against the back of his neck once more, and closed his eyes, trying to weather out the sense of unease that he felt upon the man’s closeness and suggestive nature.
But he was aware of another thing; his wrists weren’t being tied back together.
“You’re harmless,” Zechs said, his tone filled with disbelief. “You’re utterly harmless...Are you scared, little mouse? Is that why you haven’t bothered trying? Or do you simply know you cannot outmatch me, and have admitted defeat? That...pretty one...is rather beautiful of you. To know the distinction of what a man can do to another and is willing to play the submissive is quite courageous. You are a stronger man than most. Others...others would panic and fight the instant they sense danger, never truly knowing what else could have been done if they had merely waited.”
Quatre stiffened at the feel of a fingertip traveling up the inseam of his jean clad thigh. His muscles trembled as that single digit switched to four fingers, tracing up into his crotch. He shut his eyes, taking the grope with nothing more than a hitched breath. He felt Zechs’ lips at the back of his neck once more, and could feel the curl of a smile against his skin.
He hated this man. And he hated so much that as he opened his eyes, feeling another hand slide up his hip, he could think of how he was going to destroy him. Many people before him had had their hands on him; their filthy, disgusting, selfish hands that never thought of how he felt.
No one asked him if it were okay; and he learned to give himself out if it meant his survival.
But no one asked. His comfort never came to the front; his needs were ignored; no one bothered to act concerned for him.
He continued to remain silent, his eyes traveling along the basic furnishings of the room. They paused on the night stand, and he stared at the slim, dark handle that allowed one to open the single drawer. He could see that it could disconnect easily. All he had to do was twist it, turn it sideways. And it’d be done.
Faintly, his lips curled into a smirk.
Zechs pulled away from him then, rising as he put away the discarded materials of which he’d used to clean his wounds. Quatre didn’t move, listening to the other man put the first aid kit aside, his footsteps whispering along the carpet. He continued to stare at the drawer handle, and forced himself to relax once more.
When he felt gentle, strong hands curling under his arms, forcing him to rise, he resolved himself to do something he hadn’t done, before; he was going to fight back.
When he recognized that Zechs was maneuvering him back first against the bed, he forced himself out of his arms, slamming against the night stand in a movement that looked as if he’d simply tripped. His hands, talented in the old art of thieving, had the handle out from its supports before he even settled against the sturdy piece of furniture.
Zechs was immediately there to pick him up again, never seeing the smirk the shadows of the room hid as Quatre allowed himself to be maneuvered onto the bed.
As he slid across the cool sheets, the man following him with a predatory expression, Quatre focused on the ceiling, hands held stiffly at his sides. He counted the tiles as Zechs lowered his face to his neck, his pretty lips touching and tasting his throat. It was disgusting, really, to have contact with a creature like this. Vile, predatory and giving not a fig to what Quatre wanted. He didn’t want to be touched like this, to be treated this way. He didn’t want it.
But he laid there, patiently, waiting for the right moment. Zechs was murmuring his appreciation as his hands ghosted over his frame, lightly caressing his ribs, his chest; feeling out his nipples. Quatre shifted his eyes to look over Zechs’, noting the man’s predatory expression as they swept over his exposed flesh.
Zechs didn’t know what was coming as he lowered his head once more.
It felt odd; the metal handle drove into the optic orb, and there was a loud POP that made Quatre wince. There was a moment of silence as Zechs froze in his previous movement, and Quatre stared, wide-eyed, as he removed his hand from his weapon. The handle just seemed to hover there; wedged in tightly within the orb that had been Zechs’ eye. Blood didn’t flow immediately–no, it wept slowly, dribbling down that pale face and curving down his chin; dripping onto Quatre’s chest with solid warmth. For a moment, it was unreal.
Zechs screamed, a wicked, ugly sound that shattered the silence. He rose away from him, his hands flying to his face. Immediately, Quatre was jumping up from the bed, running out as the blond flailed in hysterical panic. Furniture smashed to the floor; expletives filled the air; Zechs screamed himself hoarse as Quatre ran throughout the penthouse searching for Duo.
Door after door was found locked. Quatre’s throat had locked up, preventing him from calling Duo’s name. He clawed at each handle, pounded at every door, hearing Zechs scream. Fear made him silent as he tore through one hall into the next; took a stairway down to start on those doors.
He heard Zechs screaming for him, vowing death and torture. Loud thumps told Quatre that he was staggering out from that room, and he was looking for him.
Quatre flew through the first doorway that opened upon his frantic grasp. He found himself stumbling into a library, one with books that filled every available inch of the room. He plowed through a couple of stacks, whirled, and headed back out. Zechs was clawing his way through the hall, his one good eye widening with recognized fury once he caught sight of Quatre.
For a moment, the blond froze in his haste. Staring at that one good eye, the other ruined beyond repair and recognition, he was caught in the throes of paralyzation.
Zechs lunged at him, his hands bloodied. At least he’d removed the handle from his ruined eye. That got Quatre to move–he turned and sprinted down the hall, hearing Zechs slam into the floor. The man’s scream followed him as he took another staircase up onto the previous floor.
He found his voice, then, screaming Duo’s name as he found himself back in the living room.
As he ran down the same hall he’d left earlier, he heard a door slam in a direction opposite of him. He whirled, trying to locate the pinpoint of that sound. Zechs was cursing up a storm, a myriad mixture of threats, of promises, of foul language.
He turned to run away from the oncoming storm, only to hear an unfamiliar man’s voice ring out. He stopped short, then turned to a door–it was unlocked, and he flung it open, running inside; only to see that it was a bathroom. He gave a distressed sound as he heard someone running to the door; looking over his shoulder, he watched Zechs give a snarl before slamming the door shut. Quatre lunged at it, feeling the handle being gripped firmly as the older man kept him from opening it.
He heard the low mixture of voices outside the door, followed with outraged cries and startled inquiries. Pulling his hand away from the handle, he whipped around, searching for another weapon. Being able to fight back, earning an injury of his attacker in the process, gave him the confidence he needed to continue. The blind panic from earlier was slowly ebbing away–letting his mind clear so that he could plan out a better escape plan. He found the toilet plunger, and brandished that, backing away from the door until he hit the back wall. Focusing on his breathing, he willed the door to open; he planned his defense, and planned his way out of the penthouse. He couldn’t find Duo; he’d just have to come back to get him later, with the others. He heard the mixture of voices leave the door. As silence fell over him, he gripped the plunger tightly, anxiously awaiting some form of movement from those that were waiting outside.
Minutes seemed to pass with the length of hours. He grew stiff from standing so tensely, gripping the plunger tightly within both hands. When no telling movement or sound alerted him to danger outside, he cautiously began to move forward. He reached out to grip the doorknob, and found it unlocked. Slowly, he turned the handle and opened the door, peering out carefully. The hall was empty, but he heard Zechs cursing up a solid storm just down the other way. Seeing that he was in the clear, Quatre moved out from the bathroom, and began moving toward the living room.
“There you are!” someone shouted, and he whirled in time to see a tall, dark haired man lunge at him. He swung the plunger, catching the man upside the face; he recognized him as the magician, Trant. Trant stumbled upon impact, and gave a loud noise of dissatisfaction as he hit the floor. Quatre turned and ran, sprinting for the front door, hearing others giving chase.
Growing panicked as he slammed to a stop against the solid wood, he worked the locks and had the thing open when hands ensnared within his hair and yanked him back. He began swinging his arms around, kicking at anything that moved as complaints colored the air.
He was then pinned down, with one man sitting on his feet, and two others holding him by his wrists. The position was very familiar; and his breathing turned into panicked wheezes, fear overtaking his earlier fighting instincts. Upon seeing the puzzled expressions of those that were holding him down, his eyes flitting from each one to another with stark terror.
“Let him go.”
“Wha–? Treize–!”
“Just let him go. Please.”
Reluctantly, Quatre’s wrists and feet were released, the men rising to their feet and moving back. Quickly, Quatre was on his own feet, pulling away from them. His back hit the door, eyes still flitting wildly from one person to another, still unable to control his panicked breathing. One man in particular stood out–his handsome features were arranged into that of kindness as he gestured at the others to leave.
This man’s eyes were also blue–but they didn’t hold the same coldness and emptiness that Zechs’ possessed. No, these eyes were full of intelligence and of cunning. As they bore into Quatre’s, the blond had a fleeting instinct in that something wasn’t right; that what he was looking into wasn’t what he saw.
He felt nauseated for a few moments, and the room tilted gently. But the moment he blinked, these symptoms went away. Unfortunately, he himself couldn’t look away from those hooded orbs.
Treize walked up to him, and paused a few steps away. His expression shifted to that of inquiry as he signaled for the others to leave.
“We’ve had a rough time, I see,” Treize murmured. No matter what, Quatre couldn’t look away from his eyes, and Trieze seemed to use that as he took another step closer to him. “I apologize, first off, for being so indifferent to your needs. I would have thought that you’d behave in a more appropriate manner in an unfamiliar setting–that is, not stabbing my friends in their eyes.”
Treize took in the frightened male’s features, his eyes caressing over every inch as he began a slow walk away from him. They touched briefly on Quatre’s bare feet, noting the boniness of his toes, the way they curled into the carpet.
“I’m here to help you,” he then said, raising his voice. “Both you and...your friend Duo. You see, being with those other boys had been hell, wasn’t it? I was told of how they mistreated you both. Especially you, Quatre. Three boys...growing up without the love and affection of the opposite sex–discounting Sally and Catherine, as they prefer each other–they must have grown selfish with just a taste. They used you and used you, until you yourself could not distinguish what was really affection, and what was really the careless use of a new toy. I fully understand, Quatre...that’s why I wanted to rescue you. That’s why I had asked my friends, who all had your best interests and comforts in heart, to take you out of that home.”
Quatre had a fleeting moment in that he couldn’t believe what Treize was saying. But it vanished, then, as he thought about Heero. How the mutant would jerk him around; use him sexually, the way he’d pulled away when Quatre revealed his horrible secret. How Trowa used him as a hostage. How Duo and Wufei flaunted their love for each other. How Sally and Catherine talked to him condescendingly.
“No one cares for you, Quatre...and it shows. Look at you. If they had cared so much, why are you still here?” Treize asked softly, gesturing around his penthouse. “If they were your friends, don’t you think they should be here right now? That they wouldn’t have allowed Alex to take the pair of you out of that home? In fact, Duo left earlier. He left without you. He wanted only to save himself, Quatre. What kind of friend is that? To think only of himself? His means of teleportation could have whisked the pair of you away from here...to the comforts of your home...but he instead took only himself. That isn’t a friend, Quatre.”
Duo had left? Is that why he couldn’t find him? There had been a lot of noise made within this place, and if Duo were truly here...wouldn’t he have answered? Quatre felt himself slumping tiredly against the wall. In a way, Treize was right. Enough time had passed for Heero and the others to find them. After all, they had said they’d kept tabs on Treize; to know the small details of where he lived, of whom he dealt with...why weren’t they here?
Suddenly he recalled Zechs saying something about people sleeping within the penthouse. Faint storms of conflicting emotions made him close his eyes, jerking away from Treize’s presence.
“You can’t use your powers here, Quatre,” Treize went on to croon. Quatre found himself staring into those eyes once more, unable to look away. The realization in being unable to use his powers made his entire body heavy. “They will not work. No matter how hard you try, they will not work. Do not even try to use them.”
Without them...he was helpless. Quatre felt himself slump, then slowly sink to the floor. He couldn’t see Treize’s eyes with his own closed, but he could still see them on the back of his eyelids.
“There, there...come now...let’s return you to your room...get some rest. And when you wake up, all of this will have been a very bad dream. Your ‘friends’ don’t care enough for you to come for you, Quatre. I will keep you safe. No one will use you, here. Come....let’s go back to your room...”
And, with a flash of startled wonder, Quatre felt himself taking the hand that was being offered to him. Treize helped him up, and the two walked back to the room that Quatre had woken in. As he was being led in, Trieze let his hand linger over the blond’s shoulder.
“Sleep well, Quatre,” he said softly. “Your enemies will not find you here. They will not disturb you here. I will keep you safe.”
Quatre nodded, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. He drifted away from Treize, and walked over to the bed. Zechs’ blood was still there on the bedsheets. But he paid it no mind as he sank onto the surface, curling lightly into a fetal position. He felt tired all of a sudden, and he closed his eyes to sleep as Treize watched over him...a smirk on his handsome face.